Saviors and Sacrifice

Book 2 of the

We, The Hidden Series

By Terry LaBarba

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Saviors and Sacrifice

Copyright 2011 by Terry LaBarba

Smashwords Edition

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Dedicated to my daughter Angela,

Thanks for the unconditional love you’ve always given me. It’s such a rare gift. Your help in the series’ early days will always be remembered.

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Who can thank the hero whose deeds remain unknown? —Red

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Prologue

The year 1991 – San Diego, California

It felt like wild horses were trampling across his abdomen. The handsome, dark haired man wearing nurse’s scrubs gasped for air and grabbed a hold of the corridor’s rail. It was meant to steady the elderly residents at the La Jolla Nursing Home, not their favorite caregiver.

Something’s wrong, a woman in a wheelchair said, as she watched him crumble to the shiny linoleum. Both of his hands clutched at his gut.

The home’s administrator’s eyes showed concern. It’s Tolan! Judith said, as she slid up to him and kneeled at his side. Get Dr. Yo, she shouted down the hall.

Dr. Yo soon knelt by Tolan, her petite frame leaned over his tall one. She pulled his uniform shirt out from his pants to examine his midsection. What is it, your appendix?

Tolan shook his head no. He couldn’t go into how he knew, and didn’t exactly know what it was, but he could say what it wasn’t.

Dr. Yo believed him. They all had learned to listen to his knowing.

The pain let up and he looked around at the ones gathered around him. It was amazing how fast the wheelchairs, walkers and cane bearers had gathered around him, everyone with concerned expressions.

The doctor spoke without looking away from him. Judith and Marina, clear out the hallway.

A female resident grabbed Judith by the sleeve. Does Mr. Nichols have family to call?

Judith shook her head. There’s an estranged brother, probably in the U.K. His emergency contact here is Gordon.

Oh. Poor thing, Tolan heard someone say.

Show’s over, he thought, no longer wishing to worry them further. He rose, until another pain hit him and back down he sunk. This one twisted his lower back muscles in a sharp cramp that intensified as it knifed its way to his abdomen.

What do you think it is, Doctor? Judith asked, as she led the onlookers from the area.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was in labor.

Tolan threw his head back with a yell that echoed across the hall’s hard surfaces. It caused some residents to try to steer their wheelchairs back to the scene, wanting to see what was happening to the nice, quiet, young man who bathed and fed them.

Tolan saw a familiar pair of brown slippers shuffle up to the scene. He looked up to see his long time patient, Mr. Garcia, frowning down at him. Oh no, the man said under his breath. Do something Doctor.

Dr. Yo gave the permission for the ambulance request and slid behind Tolan, keeping him in a slightly reclined sitting position, his back to her chest, her arms pulled under his, maintaining his position. She made eye contact with another nurse who kneeled close by and gave a ‘what the heck’ shrug before she led Tolan in a well known birthing, pain management technique. He followed her example, breathing in short pants and sharp exhales.

As ridiculous as it seemed, he’d do anything to put off the pain so they both puffed and panted before the confused staff. The sight would have been comical had the whole episode not been so bewildering.

A tingle of energy went through his body and his hurting faded. Tolan looked up at a man wearing a doctor’s lab coat, standing next to the rest. He’d never seen him at the home before and would have remembered this guy, with the long, blond braid and crystal blue eyes.

The man crouched down by him.

How do you feel now, Tolan? Judith asked while Dr. Yo observed him.

He didn’t answer. He was too occupied with looking at the new doctor’s necklace that he wore, which stood out from the rest of his medical apparel. It appeared Egyptian, but he somehow knew it was older, –very much older, and what was that metal that shaped the seven triangles accompanying the Eye of Horus?

He looked into the man’s eyes; a wealth of warmth and well being poured from them.

And then he heard the man think to him.

Call off the ambulance. You are fine.

He wondered if Dr. Yo heard that in her head, too. No one paid the man any attention, which was odd because he was the kind of man that would cause a reaction from any female in his presence. He was quite striking.

There’s no need for an ambulance, Dr. Yo. Please call it off, Tolan said, looking into her concerned, Asian eyes. I’m well now. The pains are gone.

And so was the man who had briefly connected with him. Tolan realized he was the only one looking around for where he went.

By the time he rose to his feet, the unknown doctor was gone from his memory. There was nothing left but relief from the strong pains and his bafflement over the episode.

He had no idea how he was connected to the blessed event unfolding hundreds of miles north of them…

Within Mt. Shasta – Outskirts of Telos

Can you hear me, Celine? the blond bearded Lemurian asked close to her ear. With his hand on hers, Regis waited for his daughter’s reply but she made none. She looked troubled, her face tense with pain as she lay suspended on what looked like air, hovering a few inches over a bed. For almost nine months the woman who once called herself Cat was sheltered by her unconscious state, in a cave that served as transitional grounds between two dimensions.

To emerge from a coma during the last stage of childbirth was a harsh welcome back. Regis squelched his fear of it causing her to retreat further. He needed her to assist in the delivery, knowing that a surgical extraction of the infant would not be suitable in her case.

He sensed her level of awareness was increasing, her will battling with her body. We need you, Celine. Your baby girl needs you. He felt her hand grip his again. Yes, Sweetheart. This is your special day.

There is fetal distress, the midwife said.

Celine’s hand went limp in his. There was nothing left to do but chant a healing song in the ancient Lemurian tongue. His grave expression eased as one by one, voices of unseen chanters grew to a choir around them, sung word for word and in unison.

Then he felt it, the tingle through his body that told him his old friend entered the room. He looked over to him and saw that J’Alor was not alone. His grandson, Marcus, stood next to him. The child’s eyes never left the woman whom he nicknamed the sleeping princess. The boy watched her floating on her back, under a sheet of glimmering fabric that rippled over her large mound of a belly, giving evidence of strong, uterine contractions.

To a surface dweller, the blond bearded man standing diligently by the hovering woman appeared to be her age as well, which looked around age thirty, but Regis was hundreds of years her senior and Celine was more than twice times thirty. Maintaining youth was an accomplishment the Lemurian descendents longed to share with their neighbors above the ground.

Regis glanced appreciatively at the boy. Of course young Marcus would be there, he thought. It was customary for the husband to attend the birth of his wife to be. That is, when such things came with fore-knowledge.

How is she, my friend? J’Alor sent telepathically.

All is well and as it should be, was Regis’ answer.

It was the correct response for one who intends to make only positive statements, but the man with the long, blond braid and the eyes of blue ice knew better.

Regis decided to relay his true concern. The child comes forth with complications and not when she is supposed to.

J’Alor lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgement and placed a hand on Regis’ shoulder. This grandchild will rarely do as she is supposed. But I do not have to remind you of the woes of men with strong willed daughters.

With that said, J’Alor came closer to Celine. She looked too frail to be carrying a child of such a unique genetic blend. The babe deserved the special gift he had to contribute. So J’Alor restarted the chanting song, offering his lineage of ancestral chanters to accompany the ones belonging to Regis.

And the warming power of it filled the earthen room. A glow of illumination brightened intensely with the voice of J’Alor singing his intent for wellness.

Although young Marcus didn’t know the obscure dialect, he still hummed along and watched the Lemurian midwife administering to the beautiful sleeping princess with the long, yellow blond braid.

J’Alor scooped Marcus into his arms and held him, wanting to brace him for the sometimes violent reaction that surface dwellers have during childbirth, even though Celine was half Lemurian. The boy could feel the vibration of his grandfather’s singing in the amulet that he always wore against his chest.

As always, preferring a dramatic entrance, Celine suddenly landed on the bed. It was her final birthing pain and her upper half rose up as she screamed out her first word since being in a coma. The sound echoed through the cave, causing the peaceful chanting to cease. Marcus grabbed on to J’Alor in alarm. All were still and waited.

And then the wail of a newborn infant filled their ears. Their High Priest, Adama, appeared in time to see relieved smiles across the faces of all who were present. After all, it was an honor to witness this long awaited occasion.

Regis lifted up the babe for all eyes including Celine’s and proclaimed in a Lemurian dialect that he translated to English for Celine and the boy. This female child will be the mother of the Father of the Peacemakers. Since she precedes Earth’s winds of change she shall be called Mariah.

Mariah, Marcus repeated with a whisper of awe.

Regis brought the crying infant to Celine and as she groggily looked to the child lying on her chest, maternal emotion broke through her confusion, bringing a slight smile to her lips.

After the moment of joy had passed, Regis gave J’Alor a concerned look for the other matter. The word Celine had screamed out was a name. She had called for Benson.

Chapter 1

Brazilian rainforest - One year later

Benson Palmer closed his eyes and cringed, waiting for the bullet to strike. He could always tell the moment when a gun was aimed at him. It was a prickling sensation across his right ear that gave it away. He knew it wasn’t any of his captors on the ground that aimed at him. They were accounted for, playing cards in the tent, waiting out the rainstorm. His being trapped in a metal cage, suspended in the trees, twenty feet from the Brazilian jungle floor, shirtless, definitely had him at a disadvantage. Before, he was meat for the mosquitoes. Now he was target practice for a most patient marksman that only the rain kept from firing.

He looked out across the higher elevations of the terrain even though he didn’t expect to see anything. Any good sniper would be well hidden. He knew all about them. He came there with one, ready to get the job done before someone on his team betrayed them. It was the American in the tent now calling the shots.

Benson lost a good man over it. What a damn shame, but Ricky was better at a distance with a rifle in his hand than on the ground in combat. He should have stayed separate from him, in the higher ground. Why they were keeping him caged was beyond him. The only thing he could think of was they were stopping him from interfering in the Brazilian/Iraqi deal. Later, he would be questioned and dealt with, the Brazilian way. There was something they were waiting on, still needing him for. He’d been hanging there like a caged bird for two weeks.

He looked down through a four-inch space between the bars at the tent below. He could see one of the three men inside from an opening in the flap of the tent. It’s clear which side they are on but who else had designs on him?

Benson discretely glanced back out into the distance, looking for unnatural movement, even though the rain still prevented visibility. He knew he couldn’t do anything about the sniper. If he got shot down, so be it. He was tired of being an amnesiac, alone in the world for the last two years anyway, or at least the perception that he was alone. He could have a family out there but with the strange blonde brigade after him, he had to lay low. A public appeal to anyone who could tell him about who he was or of a prior life was out of the question. He felt safer in the jungle, but to die in a cage was not how he pictured himself going. All he had was the mission and that wasn’t looking very good at the moment.

He rocked the cage until it swung closer to a branch that still had some foliage and snapped off a long leaf. Before, the men on the ground had laughed at his fashioning a roof for his cage. They had joked about him making a home, shelter from the bone soaking rain.

Benson let them laugh. They couldn’t see the rope he was twining or the branches he was sharpening. After being trapped there the first day, he thought it was time to start gathering more tools of the trade belonging to his profession –a search and destroy and a find and rescue mercenary.

He drove the sniper from his thoughts and braided the rolled up strand quickly with his fingers. Once again he ran through his mind what he knew about his current mission, which was not that much. It mainly had to do with stopping a Brazilian general and a well known American computer manufacturer from making a trade with Iraq. Selling them a supercomputer would enable them to build long-range missiles and better bombs. After what went down there, it seemed that the big-bucks computer firm was able to buy another operative, with intelligence more likely leaked by the Commerce and State Department.

The rain stopped and the sun came out, heating the area for one long steam bath, releasing the dank smell of foliage. A swarm of large mosquitoes buzzed around him. At least they aren’t bees. He hated bees. He must have had a bad brush with them once.

The three men from the tent finally emerged. Benson tucked the coil of rope into his soaked T-shirt.

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The rifleman in the higher area kept his scope on Benson and started to doubt if he still had it in him to get his target at that range. Being called back to the jungle after having a cushy job for so long put him in a difficult position. Going after Benson Palmer was worth it, even if it cost him his life. But he had to do it right. He tucked his gear away and slithered down the hill, staying low to the ground. He set up so close he could almost make out what was being said at their camp.

Once he got situated he found Benson in his riflescope then brought the site down to follow the action below him. He saw the American standing near the cage, looking up at Benson, trying to see what he was hiding. Threats were exchanged and the American drew his gun.

Now that the rain stopped, the opportunity was there for the lone observer, but one detail away…

Come on, move over, bastard, the man on the hill whispered. I need him lined up just right. He quickly found his target and squeezed the trigger. The loud pop of the rifle did more than give his presence away. He looked through the scope once again, put the rifle down and smiled with pride. He did it with one shot.

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Benson’s American captor never knew what hit him, doing his last favor ever. He had broken the fall of the cage as the expert shot sliced through the chain that held it suspended. After Benson regained the breath that was knocked from him he crawled out of the misshaped metal. A lanky Brazilian rushed to the scene to check on the man who supplied his pay. Benson lifted the cage off the crumpled body and threw it into the Brazilian, knocking him down. He ran into the jungle, barefoot, chased by a spray of bullets that somehow managed to miss him, all coming from the heavier Brazilian.

He didn’t have time to think. That was his reasoning for why he’d rush into a section of the bush that he knew very little about which left the other two men at an advantage. He had to neutralize the threat to him and the mission. Benson assessed one very tall tree amongst many and grabbed the makeshift rope from his shirt. He wrapped it around the thick trunk and shimmied up the tree like a lumberjack, stopping at a height he could hide in and slung his rope around a branch lower than where he perched.

The slim Brazilian came very close to the tree he was in, walking slowly, with his American issued automatic at the ready.

Benson held his breath, holding on to the ends of the rope and waited. He needed to place the other man before he made a move. If he only had something to throw to an opposite direction. Where’s a good coconut tree when you need one?

The Brazilian beneath him pulled out a radio and reeled off something in Spanish. Benson made out enough to know that the other man was told to stay at camp. Benson slowed his breath, calming himself. He could take the two on the ground but there was still the sniper to get past, unless… the sniper shot his cage down to deliver him over to someone else. That would normally be a two man operation. There were so many angles on this Iraqi deal that he could end up in the hands of another faction, and one that had torture in mind.

A twig snapped on the ground to his right. The Brazilian heard it too and crouched down by Benson’s tree and waited. A mosquito big enough to scare a bird away drank from Benson’s back and he had to let it. Any motion could blow his cover to either one. He grimaced at the intense itching.

The jungle was lush with the sounds of wildlife but Benson was able to notice one, particular birdcall. It seemed to elude the Brazilian but Benson recognized the slightly unnatural sound. It was a call used by his old unit. He couldn’t remember the outfit but he knew that particular call. It was meant for reassurance, communicating that someone was there to aid him, and that they had backup. Benson especially remembered it as a go ahead, make your move, you have the position of advantage.

But who was sending it? It had to be a trap. It was made clear from the start that he and Ricky were there on their own.

The birdcall sounded again.

His gut feeling said to make his move. He took a breath, swatted the mosquito from hell and used the rope to swing from the tree. The rope ripped but he still landed on his previous captor. Old combat tactics came to surface and before Benson knew it he was looking down at the Brazilian, lying with a broken neck.

It happened so effortlessly, reinforcing his suspicions about himself. I kill.

He took the Brazilian’s gun and started to go back to the camp. If he were to get out of the jungle he’d need some supplies so he needed to take down one more man.

He stood still and listened, feeling a pair of eyes on him. He brought his hands slowly to his mouth and made a return bird sound to test the waters.

A rifle flew out from the bush and fell to the ground. A ball cap with a San Diego Padre’s logo was tossed after that. Benson trained his gun on the man emerging from the trees who had his hands clasped behind his head. He didn’t recognize him, but then again… no news there. Maybe if the man removed some of his camouflage face paint he could tell.

The sniper seemed to read his concern and slowly reached a sleeved arm to wipe the greasy color from his face. Benson, it’s me, Nick Anderson, he said quietly.

Benson still couldn’t recollect and remained suspicious. Anderson started to speak but Benson motioned for him to be silent. He felt another watching him. When Benson turned toward the right the other Brazilian fired on him. He caught a bullet in the hip before he could roll into cover.

The Brazilian’s gun jammed and then he came at Benson with a large knife. Anderson grabbed his rifle and shot the man before he could attack. Benson watched the man fall dead. He spun to Nick with wild eyes, still clutching the sharpened branch he made while in his cage.

Easy there, Rambo. Let me look at that. Nick gestured toward Benson’s wound as he started to approach.

Stay where you are. Benson grimaced; his hip hurt like hell.

Nick rolled up a sleeve and exposed his upper arm, which had the same tattoo Benson had. It showed their Special Ops unit number with a dagger. We served together. You’ve got an old wound I dressed for you before on your other hip.

A memory of that slowly unfolded. He studied Nick’s face for a moment and then a rush of something comforting flowed through him. It was familiarity.

You also have a knife wound scar just above your…

Okay. Stop now before you tell me we were lovers.

Nick chuckled then frowned as Benson sunk to the ground. Nick crouched by him and assessed the wound.

I think you’ll make it, but we have to get out of this jungle soon. Nick pulled out a sterile packet of medical supplies from a pocket and commenced to extract the bullet. Benson was already biting down on his sharpened branch, knowing what would come. Nick poured a powder into the wound that hurt more than getting shot.

He started to put a comforting hand on his shoulder but Benson knocked it away, knowing the touch would anchor the state he was in and that was pain he would rather forget. He watched Anderson make a field dressing for him, figuring that the worst was over.

What happened to you, Palmer? You really didn’t remember me did you?

What are you doing here?

Besides saving your ass? He smiled and looked around the trees. You’ve done more for me.

Who pays you?

Ah, come on Palmer, I’d do this for free. When he couldn’t change the level of intensity on Benson’s face he offered what he could at the time. Look, I know you must be frustrated not knowing what’s going on or who anyone is.

Including myself.

Yeah, that’s got to suck, but trust me. I’ll help you get your memory back. We have resources for that.

So do you have a safe place nearby for me to work from? I don’t get paid unless I finish here.

Forget that. You’re coming back with me. You have a whole organization to run.

Benson stopped fiddling with his wound and looked at Anderson, wondering if he was for real.

You are a rich and powerful man, Anderson said with a grin, then pulled Benson to his feet having him lean on him as he led him toward a clearing to wait for a chopper.

How rich? Benson hobbled close to his old buddy.

Filthy, and I expect a huge raise, Boss.

Let me rest a moment, Benson said with a grimace of pain.

They stopped and Benson transferred his weight to a tree. Nick’s expression became serious. Cat went missing the same time you did. Do you know anything about that?

Benson frowned, clearly not knowing who